of coffee, tips, and charcoal smudges
by killianslonghaul
Summary: A waitress/artist in a coffee shop AU that I did for someone's birthday on Tumblr a while back and figured I would post here as well. I usually don't do well with AUs but I was really happy with how this one turned out.


"Tips are _awful_ today."

Emma shrugs at her friend, Ruby, as she shoves a single dollar into the pocket of her apron, huffing, while Emma finishes cleaning off a nearby table. "It's a random Tuesday afternoon in a small diner. You're lucky to get anything."

Ruby rolls her eyes and walks away, and Emma can practically hear the infinite stream of curses the brunette is likely spewing in her head. It makes her chuckle, how dramatic her friend can be sometimes.

At least she keeps work interesting.

 _Ding_.

Emma looks up from where she stands behind the counter at the sound of the door opening, and her heart beats just a little faster as she takes in the man who has just entered. He's _gorgeous_ , all dark hair and blue eyes, scruffy chin and wide shoulders. He looks about her age, maybe a little older. She watches him as he walks with his head down to a corner booth and pulls out a sketch pad, glancing around once as if to check if anyone is watching.

He doesn't see that she is.

He begins to steadily shade the paper with a charcoal pencil, every now and then putting it down so he can smudge certain areas with his fingers. He's concentrating so intently, his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pursed. Anyone passing by could see that this is something he's passionate about, this work of art he's slaving over. Something about it is intoxicating, the way he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as he sits back to survey the paper before leaning back over it, and she can't drag her eyes away from his little corner of the diner. She gazes at him for so long that Ruby has to pinch her arm to snap her out of it.

Emma didn't even hear her walk up.

"If you stare any longer, you're going to literally put a hole through that guy's head," she says, smirking as she leans her hip against the counter. "And that's why I'm going to let you go take Mr. Dreamy's order."

He stays for three hours on the dot, only ordering a black coffee when she asks, which she spills a little bit of onto her hand when she brings it to him. He looks away from his art long enough to chuckle at her mishap, but he still smiles and thanks her warmly with a soft voice and a "love" thrown in at the end. His gaze meets hers when he speaks, too, and she's completely stuck staring into his eyes and trying to remember how to breathe, the pain of the burn on her hand forgotten. His smile is sweet, and his eyes are so open and perceptive, like he's seeing straight past her messy ponytail and likely smudged eyeliner and into the deepest parts of her. It unsettles her as much as it intrigues her, so much that she it's all she can do to turn and walk away without looking completely idiotic.

It's a minute or two later that she realizes she walked away without asking if there was anything else she could get him.

He tips well when he leaves, and as she tucks the few dollar bills into the pocket of her apron, she runs her other hand over the black residue he left on the table. She smiles to herself, wiping it off and getting it ready for the next customer, but she swears that even after she's cleaned the surface, she can still see the charcoal imprint.

"The table looked fine," Ruby tells her when they leave, grinning. "The residue must have been left on your _heart_."

"Shut up," Emma replies, rolling her eyes at her friend's teasing and looking away because she can feel her cheeks warming. "I just… I mean, he was cute, and… there was something about him."

"Maybe it's love at first sight." When Emma glances over, she's sure she'll see Ruby's signature smirk, but instead, the brunette's face is completely serious.

Emma shakes her head, looking down the street and trying to find something else to focus on. She sighs. "Maybe, if I believed in that kind of thing."

She crosses the street before Ruby has a chance to respond.

(Even so, she doesn't take a single note in her biology class, too lost in thinking about the way his eyes shined when he smiled at her.)

(She should have known then that she was screwed.)

He starts coming in regularly, but he always pays with cash and she still doesn't know his name. Ruby lets Emma gets his table every day that he comes in, always at around the same time and always leaving at around the same time. He rarely deviates from this schedule that he seems to have, and it makes her wonder where he's coming from every day, where he goes to when he leaves.

She's just glad that she at least doesn't spill his coffee anymore.

His visits increase in frequency, until he's coming in nearly every day, sitting at the same table and catching her eye from across the diner. Part of her wonders if he knows that she'll probably never let another person take his order.

Smiling at him becomes easy because his smiles are consistently wide and bright, but every time she thinks about having a real conversation with him, she thinks of Neal's sweet smile and honest eyes. He was neither of those things, it turns out, and she still cries sometimes at night because the ache in her heart lingers.

So, she doesn't really speak to the beautiful stranger that's sneaking his way under her skin, somehow. She asks him for his order, smiles when he thanks her for bringing it, and once manages to spit out a "have a nice day" as he walks out the door.

She swears she sees him trying to hide a smile as he crosses the street.

One day, he comes in with his head lower than usual, going to his corner but this time, not pulling out his sketches. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs, his shoulders hanging low. She can feel his sadness radiating off of him, and she stares for a long time waiting to see if he'll shake off whatever it is bothering him and pull out his drawings.

But he doesn't.

She approaches slowly, and he lifts his head looking utterly defeated. "Just my coffee, please."

"Okay," she says, and she starts to turn away but stops. "You sure I can't get you anything else?"

His expression softens just a little, and he gives her the smallest of smiles. "No, thank you, love. I appreciate it, though."

She goes behind the counter, getting his coffee ready and then staring at it for a long moment, wanting to do something, _anything_ , to get him to really smile, to lift his mood and bring back the artistic guy that she's come to secretly adore without ever knowing his name. Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she glances around and spots their baker putting out a fresh pan of donuts.

So, she brings him one, setting it down next to his coffee. He looks up at her, something shifting in his eyes. "On the house," she tells him softly, smiling. "And they just came out of the oven."

And he smiles, too, looking as if he wants to say something but can't find the right words.

Her hand is resting on the table, and he touches it with the backs of his own fingers. "Thank you."

His touch is electric and distracting, making her insides feel like they're completely liquefied.

"Uh, yeah, sure." She stammers out her response, and his smile turns more into a smirk as he pulls his hand back.

He stays a little longer than usual, but before he leaves, he makes sure to meet her eyes and smile gratefully.

She feels the warmth of his presence long after he's gone.

He returns two days later and it's _him_ , all coy smiles and raised brows in a blue plaid shirt rolled up at the elbow. She smiles wide when she asks for his order. He asks for his coffee, eyes sparkling, and by the time she's returned with it, he's pulled out his work.

Feeling a little brave, she places the coffee on the table and looks at what he's working on— it's an island nestled in the middle of raging waters, covered in tall dark trees.

It's _amazing_ , and she's blown away by the fact that she can see so much detail in just a black and white picture. "That looks really good," she says, and he glances up, looking a little sheepish.

"Uh, thank you, very much," he replies slowly, looking a few times between her and the piece of paper in front of him.

"Is that what you're doing in college? Are you an art major?"

He looks back down, his expression turning a bit wistful. Something dark threatens at the corners of his posture, in his eyes when he glances back up. His hand clenches on the table just slightly. "No, love. It's my minor."

She's sitting down across from him before she's thought it through, her eyes still taking in the picture in front of her. She shakes her head as she looks at it, letting one finger brush against the corner of the page. "Why? You're so great, and I mean… you obviously love it. More than _minor_ love it."

His eyes meet hers and he looks so sad, so unbelievably sad, that she finds herself reaching for his hand, placing hers on top of his, her thumb brushing against his knuckles. It's intimate and makes her heart ache, but for once, it's not because she's remembering Neal. This time, it's because she wishes she could make his pain go away.

He looks down at their hands, pursing his lips. The dark that she saw earlier intensifies slightly, and surprisingly, she recognizes the look of someone plagued by monsters under their bed.

(Hers are her foster parents that she finally escaped six months ago, the day after she turned eighteen.

She can't help but wonder what his are.)

"I… " His hand twitches and she begins to second guess her actions, her heart starting to beat faster and embarrassment starting to build in her chest. She studies his face carefully, looking for any sign that what she's done, that her soft touch, is unwelcome. And then, considering that she can't tell if he's frustrated or pensive or uncomfortable, she starts to pull her hand away.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry. I just…" When he doesn't stop her or act as if he wants to say anything more, she snatches her hand back completely and stands up too fast, almost tripping over her own feet. He reaches for her automatically, but she avoids his touch and walks as quickly as she can to the kitchen.

Getting there takes too long, and she can feel his eyes on her back the whole way, but she won't turn around. She doesn't want to see his expression, because every fear she's ever had about falling for someone again is rushing back in a flood, drowning her and she can't _breathe_.

(Stupid. She was so _stupid_ to think that he'd be interested in her. She's just his _waitress_ , for crying out loud.)

Her back hits the cold kitchen wall and she closes her eyes, a tear escaping and slipping down her cheek. She wipes it away angrily, so angry at herself for being so unbelievably naïve. She should have known better. She shakes her head when Ruby raises a brow at her.

"Are you okay?" her friend asks, her expression becoming more serious.

Emma nods, quickly and unconvincingly, but her friend doesn't push the subject, only touches her arm as she passes by.

She dreams of him that night, of his beautiful eyes and equally beautiful art. Then, she blinks, turns around, looks away for a split second.

And he's gone, disappeared into thin air, leaving a hole in her heart that she can still feel when her alarm wakes her the next morning.

She doesn't have to look up to know that it's him that's walked in. The ache inside of her intensifies when he does, and she knows his presence is there. Part of her thinks she can feel him looking at her, as if imploring her to look his way, to give him a glance, at least.

But she can't. Before, he was a steady presence, a warm rush, like sitting beside a bonfire and warming your hands with it. Now, he's a blistering fire, and she feels like she's been thrown into a burning building and the flames are consuming her bones, skin, muscle, _everything_. Ruby slides up beside her, putting a hand on her arm. "You want me to get him today?"

Emma nods, closing her eyes against the emotion closing up her throat. "Please."

She can hear Ruby's "fake nice" voice from where she stays behind the counter, and she puts her head in her hands, trying to figure out when she let this whole situation get so pathetic. It's not like she's _in love_ with the guy, but why does she feel so rejected by someone she's never even really talked to? Why does she wish so desperately that he had let her in? Why does part of her want him to talk to her, to offer some explanation as to why he didn't?

(So, _so_ stupid.)

His voice is low, as it usually is, and she can't make out his words. A moment later, however, Ruby is back. "He's asking for you." Emma looks up, and Ruby smiles just a little. "And I think you should go take his order."

She swallows, glancing in his direction. He doesn't have his sketch pad out, and his hands are crossed in his lap. He's looking down, his mouth twisted in a lopsided frown. He's gazing intently at his fingers, moving them every so often, his brows furrowing as if he believes they will give him the answers he needs.

Something shifts as she watches him, her chest squeezing too tightly. He doesn't look up, barely moves other than nervous twitches.

"I don't need to," Emma says eventually, standing and turning to the coffee machine. "I know what he wants."

When he sees her, his entire face transforms to one of apology, his blue eyes wide. "Emma, I—"

"Here's your coffee," she tells him, no idea why she's being so cold to him. Something about the way her name sounded on his lips has made her feel like she's going to be sick. "Can I get you anything else?"

"Five minutes of you sitting across from me and listening?" His expression looks so distraught, like his life depends on her sitting down, so she sighs and sits down in the seat in front of him.

"You don't owe me anything," she says, propping her crossed arms on the table in front of her chest.

"No, I'm sorry. I just…" And this time it's him who reaches across the table, picking up her hand completely and holding it in his. "Nobody's ever bothered to pay much attention to what I'm making, much less ask about it. I've never really talked about it. I didn't know… how to handle it. I know that sounds lame, but…"

She can practically feel her protective layer falling away, and no matter how desperately she tries to hold on to it, his touch and his eyes and the way he's looking at her combine to make it impossible. "It's okay," she says, looking at their hands as she brushes her thumb against the back of his fingers.

He smiles, and, as if they're a mirror, two sides of one picture, she does, too.

"My name is Killian, by the way. And if you'll listen, I'd love to tell you my story."

 _Killian_. She repeats it slowly, and it feels good on her lips.

And then, he talks.

(She stays for longer than five minutes, bless Ruby's soul, and he tells her everything—how his parents expect more from him than a "lowlife" career as an artist, how he managed to get them to approve of a minor in art even though they weren't happy about it, how he wishes more than anything that they understood his love for a blank canvas and charcoal covered fingers.

She listens to every word, wishing that she could rescue him with a passion that surprises her. She wishes that he could draw them both a better world on his little sketchpad, and then they could just step into it, never to look back.)

It's slow, but day by day, he continues to come in and sit at the exact same table, ordering the exact same thing and pulling out the exact same sketch pad, and every day that he does, she finds herself drawn to him more and more. She sits down with him when she can and listens to him talk. He tells her every time his parents yell at him the night before, tells her when he's finished a particularly challenging piece, tells her about his day.

And he asks her questions, too, about her foster parents and why she wants to become a doctor, about her very few friends, about her job and whether she likes it.

Once, while she's sitting across from him telling him about an annoying past foster brother, he reaches over and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear that had fallen out of her ponytail. His hand lingers, and she leans into his touch, her heart beating too fast.

He takes a shaky breath and then pulls his hand away, asking about other foster siblings. She can feel his touch long after he leaves.

(It's late that night, curled up under her sheets, that she admits to herself that she's falling in love with him.

Or maybe, just maybe, that Ruby was right, and it was love at first sight, after all.)

"Another fight with your parents?"

Killian's smile is wistful as he takes his coffee. "That obvious?"

She could tell him that she knows the difference in his posture, in the set of his shoulders, in the lift of his brow. She could say that she can feel his troubled heart as if it were her own, beating blood through her chest instead of his.

Instead, she brings the chocolate glazed donut from behind her back, sets it on the table, and then puts her index finger to her lips secretively.

He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, failing to hide a grin. "Sit with me?"

She glances around at the nearly empty diner, and then slides into the booth across from him. "Was it bad?" she asks, propping her chin up on her fist.

Killian nods, pursing his lips and looking down at his donut. He picks off a piece of it, then leaves it on the plate. "They're officially threatening to stop helping me pay my way through school if I don't stop wasting my time on such a worthless hobby."

"You can't give up on what you love so much," she tells him, watching as he eats the piece of donut he'd just broken off. "You… you just have to find a way. I…"

She aches for him, for the dream that he wants so strongly but can't seem to find. Her fingers wrap over his, and he turns his hand over to hold hers. "I've never wanted to fight them before," he says quietly, staring at their hands. "I've always just… avoided it. But, all the talking to you… I want to fight them. I want to follow this dream wherever it leads me. I want to change my major to what _I_ want to study, not them. I want to be brave enough to face them and… maybe I am."

"I think you are." The words are easy, slipping past her lips nearly before his voice has stopped.

He smiles, and goes to speak again, but Ruby calls her name from across the diner. "I need some help over here!"

Emma pulls her hand back reluctantly, brushing her hand over his shoulder as she walks away. He's gone the next time she turns around, but when she goes to clean his table, she sees a folded up piece of paper from his sketch pad. She picks it up gingerly, like it's a small child that can't be dropped or a priceless artifact that needs delicate care. Unfolding it, she's surprised to see an image of herself staring back at her.

Behind her is a clock on top of a post, one that she recognizes from campus. The time on it reads five.

He wants her to meet him.

She knows that meeting him outside of work, outside of this little world they've created for themselves, where everything is safe and comfortable, will change their dynamic. Outside of the diner, she isn't his waitress. Outside of the diner, their touches won't be limited.

Outside of the diner, things change.

So, when she meets him in the twilight underneath a big lit up clock, her throat is dry and her palms are sweating and she swears her heart is going to beat out of her chest or stop beating altogether.

"You came," he breathes, stepping toward her until their bodies are only centimeters apart. "I was… I was afraid that maybe—"

"Of course," she interrupts him, suddenly not feeling as nervous at the sight of him stumbling over his words.

(Words aren't really needed, anyway.)

He smiles at her response, and his hand finds her hip. Hers wraps around his neck. Their foreheads bump.

His kiss is sweet and slow, and his other hand threads into her hair, which she's glad she thought to put down and run a brush through now. When they part, he stays close, pecking her lips once more before chuckling to himself.

"I've wanted to do that since the first day I walked into that stupid diner. I only came back so much to see you," he admits, his smile turning slightly sheepish.

"Oh yeah?" she says, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "And here I thought you came back for the amazing coffee."

"Heavens, no. Your coffee is terrible."

She laughs, the sound echoing in the darkening park. Her hands trail down to his chest, and it's comfortable, so unbelievably comfortable to be in his arms, his lips moving to her forehead as she leans into his chest.

Maybe it wasn't quite love at first sight, because the idea of that, she knows, is improbable.

But whatever it is, she thinks it's pretty damn close.


End file.
